


Ice

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Christmas Prompts [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A-Z Christmas Prompt, Awkward Conversations, Because It wouldn't be a Gem and Kittie story without Awkwardness, Caring Sherlock, Cheek Kisses, Erections, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Ice, John doesn't like being called Vanilla, John gets kneed in the groin, John is Not Amused, John is grumpy, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock feels bad, Sherlock looks at Johns dick, Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, awkward erections, slipping on ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21734869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: Sherlock however, did not seem happy. He was pointing and gesturing, eyes wide as John stepped forward, brow creased in worry, and lips parted. It occurred to him, as he took another step, that Sherlock was trying to warn him about something, but already John was shifting his footing, unable to do much about the obvious error as he slipped on an unseen circle of ice, skidding with a heart-stopping lurch, before both of his feet went out from under him. He fell dramatically onto his bottom and back, gasping as the wind was knocked from his chest.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Christmas Prompts [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559605
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67





	Ice

It had been a terrible day.

So terrible, in fact, that he was extremely surprised that he hadn't actually ended up killing anyone.

The shift at the clinic had been horrid and unbearable, with old ladies insisting they were ill with some viral infection or disease, when really they just wanted a chat. A long, agonisingly boring chat. A chat with many avenues, each one without an end. John liked the elderly, liked their sense of humour, liked their spirit, liked their no-nonsense attitude, but there was only so much of their long-winded stories that he could take. Even Mrs Hudson, a woman not as old as his patients, had far too much to say on some days. Discussions about nothing. Conversations without a conclusion. John was grateful when he'd seen the last of them, the last lady who had nothing at all wrong with her hurried out the door with promises of trying her new apple crumble, but then, of course, there were the other patients. People with disgusting piles and scabbed wounds and infections. Puss filled boils. Mucus filled noses. Inflamed stinky throats. Crusted swollen eyes. All of which had not helped his splitting headache one bit, one that only got worse when, as he had gone to finally leave for the day, Sarah pulled him aside to lecture him for his untidy appearance and bad manners, warning him not to do it again.

It had been so terrible that John had decided to get a cab back to the flat instead of walk, which he had been doing ever since the weather had provided a snow unlike any other in London. He deserved it, he had told himself, because of how badly the day had gone. Deserved to sit and relax in the relative warmth, watching the world pass him by. Deserved to treat himself. It was December, after all. Christmas. Time for gifts. A cab ride was his gift.

Upon arriving at the flat, in thankfully record time, John paid the driver and righted himself on the slippy kerb with a sigh, trying to avoid the visible patches of ice as he reached for his keys. Now that he was home, with the tempting lure of the fireplace, his chair, the TV, and the chance of a correctly brewed cup of tea just moments away, he tried to let all of the days aggravations fall from him like water of a duck's back. He knew it was bad for him to stew on things and let his anger fester at his core. He needed to calm down. Needed to be distracted by other things. Have orders to follow. His own now, of course. He was in control of the anger and what to do to cage it, and starve it, and shrink it. All he needed was uninterrupted time.

With one hand still digging in his pocket for his keys, head down in thought, John was only aware of Sherlock when he heard his voice shout down at from the upstairs window, calling his name sharply. It shocked him, not having Sherlock do that much shouting from the living room window before, and he looked up, giving a wave in greeting. Sherlock however, did not seem happy. He was pointing and gesturing, eyes wide as John stepped forward, brow creased in worry, and lips parted. It occurred to him, as he took another step, that Sherlock was trying to warn him about something, but already John was shifting his footing, unable to do much about the obvious error as he slipped on an unseen circle of ice, skidding with a heart-stopping lurch, before both of his feet went out from under him. He fell dramatically onto his bottom and back, gasping as the wind was knocked from his chest.

Sherlock’s face disappeared from view as John slowly, with clenched and grinding teeth, tried to push up, hands sliding on the bitingly chilly surface beneath him, and within a few seconds, the front door flew open to the dressing gown clad body of his friend, “I _told_ you,” Sherlock huffed in frustration as he stepped out towards him, bending slightly. “Why don’t you ever _pay attention_? Why else would I call out to you if it weren't for good reason? If I didn't want you to _stop and listen_? - Next time do so, don’t just keep walking!—” As he put his stupid, posh, grip-less shoes onto the pavement, onto the ice, shoes he had clearly just slid on in a hurry moments ago going by the way his laces loosely flapped, he wobbled and then skidded himself, falling forward on top of John when his legs went out from under him. He landed, none-too-gently, straddling John in a clumsy sprawl and when he tried to move, his knee, his very bony knee, slammed sharply into John’s crotch. " _Oh sh_ —"

Sound disappeared. A moment of utter stillness, like time itself had paused, of deafening silence, before an unbelievable pain crashed through him, pushing out the last tiny bit of breath he had managed to catch. It hurt. It hurt more than anything. More than the throbbing muscles of his backside and the slight spasm of his lower back. It made every nerve ending blaze. He couldn't breathe, couldn't inhale, could barely move now that his legs had jolted up in a vain effort to try and protect himself from the damage that had already been done, and he so coughed out. Coughed with a clenching stomach, feeling faint and very swiftly sick, his next cough turning into a rough gag.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to,” Sherlock told him from somewhere above him with a panicked voice, shuffling and leaning closer as he tried to get some sort of traction. “ _Oh God_ , are you all right?—Actually, stupid question. Very… _very_ stupid. - Wait a moment, let me just… let me just get up.” He squirmed and pushed on John’s shoulder, which only served to provide John with more discomfort. “Right, right, shoulder, yes… I… um… I forgot.”

“ _Christ_...” John huffed, gulping lungfuls of chilly air when he could finally take a deep inhale. He held it, shuddered, and tried to fight the continuously crawling nausea, struggling when Sherlock's movements set off more and more waves of agony, “M'fine… just – gimme a minute.”

“I thought your body was covering the whole of it. That it was _smaller_ than it… than it was,” Sherlock stammered out, tipping back far enough that he was able to clamber onto the doorstep, far enough away to escape the ice and get back up. Then he re-evaluated the situation, squinting, cocking his head, and twisting his body this way and that, before he calculated the best way to get to John without slipping again and hauled him up. “It’s okay. Lean on me. I can take it.”

John cried out through his teeth when he was righted, an immediate stabbing pain piercing out from his genitals forcing him to stoop and bend at the waist, “Oh _fuck_ … this hurts _so much_. I'd rather be shot again than be kneed in the bollocks...”

Humming in sympathy, Sherlock shifted to take more of John’s weight, winding wind one arm tightly around his torso, “Let me pick you up. It’ll be better.”

“ _No_ … knowing my luck you'll drop me down the fucking stairs and I'll end up speared on a fucking spike somehow, tearing myself a new arsehole,” John groaned, grinding his teeth together harder and harder. “Just – take it _slow_. One step at a time.”

“But John--” he tried, pursing his lips when John shook his head and pushed at him to go, to just take him inside and be done with it. “ _Fine_. - But I want it acknowledged that I tried to make it easier.” Kicking the door shut behind them, once they had slowly but surely passed the threshold, Sherlock then reached to undo John’s button and zipper. "Here... let me just—"

“ _What_ are you doing?” John hissed, though he had no way of stop him fiddling with his trousers. “ _Get off_! I don't want to get my knob out in the _fucking_ stairway!”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Sherlock groused, leaving John’s belt alone to help keep everything in place, “I'm not getting your penis out. - This will help. Will stop putting so much pressure and unwanted friction against the affected _area_. Give you a bit of freedom--”

“What on _earth_ is going on out here _now_?” Mrs Hudson asked, appearing with a quizzical frown at her door wrapped in a shawl and staring at the strange picture they made. “What’s happened? Are you alright, John? You look awfully pale!”

“ _Sherlock kneed me in the bollocks_!” John griped, hoping that his crotch was hidden from Mrs Hudson. It wasn't that anything was particularly showing, but John didn't want his landlady seeing his dick. “But he's... he's apologising, in his own way. Everything is _fine_ , Mrs Hudson. You can go back in now...”

She didn't, of course, and instead gasped, covering her mouth with one hand, giving Sherlock a chastising look, “Why did you do _that_?—”

“It was _accidental_!” Sherlock snapped grumpily and waved her back dismissively. “Go away, Mrs Hudson.”

“You’ll need to put some ice on it! Cut down on any swelling and—”

“ _Mrs Hudson_!” John shouted, immediately feeling guilty about his tone, but unable to take it back, to stop his pain from leaking out into his words, “I _am_ a doctor, I used to play _rugby_ , I _know_ how to treat bruised testicles! Now…” He quietened his voice and sighed shakily, clutching to Sherlock when he was made to take a few more steps. “Can you just go inside. _Please_?”

Flustered and shocked at his outburst, she nodded, “Of course, dear,” she replied, shutting the door after Sherlock shooed her once again. 

“Fuck. Shit. - _Wait_ , Sherlock. Just... give me a second.” John leaned down and winced, gagging and coughing at the sharp ache, and which seemed to come in waves around his lower stomach and bollocks. “ _Fucking hell_ – This is _definitely_ worse than childbirth.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s an entirely separate circumstance with an entirely different bodily reaction. Nothing is like childbirth but _childbirth_ ,” Sherlock told him, taking the glare John shot without complaint and responding with a tilted head, eyebrows pompously lifted. “Will you let me lift you now? I can do it. And it will hurt a lot less.”

“ _Oh for_...” John grumbled but had to agree that it would probably be the quickest, less painful option next to taking the steps an inch at a time. John hated the idea of it. Didn't like the idea of being helpless, not again, yet he cringed with a choking grunt as he tried to step up and so finally nodded, giving Sherlock permission to lift him. "Okay..."

Sherlock swooped down without further delay to clasp hold of his knees and in one exhale of effort, heaved John off his feet, “Hold onto me please. _Don’t_ let go. And don’t shift your weight,” he ordered with a faintly strained tone, adjusting his posture to line up with the stairs so the first step was as effortless as possible. 

“I'm _trying_ to stay still. As still as humanly possible...” John growled, holding on and feeling faintly ridiculous. He was glad nobody was around to see this. Glad that it was Sherlock who was carrying him and no one else.

“Good. Keep it that way until I put you down,” Sherlock told him, steadily climbing all seventeen steps carefully, his fingers clenching John close. Even as they reached the top, Sherlock kept a hold of him, and then turned to walk through the kitchen, down the corridor, and into his bedroom, placing John down upon a neatly made bed. “ _Right_. Let’s take your trousers off.” Shaking out his arms, Sherlock moved to untie and remove John’s shoes, putting them down nearby, kicking his shoes off alongside. “Undo your belt.”

“ _What_? I don't need you to undress me! I – I can probably do it myself.”

Sherlock shot him a condescending glance from under his lashes, “ _John_. I am a man. I have been hit in the groin myself. _Many_ times. As have most men. I don’t think you are in a position to do much of anything,” he drawled and turned his attention on taking John’s coat, folding it up to place to one side. “Well, except undo your belt. I thought you'd appreciate that, _prefer_ that, considering your reaction beforehand--”

“ _Fine_ … but just – don't stare at me,” John huffed, cursing everything and everyone he could think of for his shitty day as he moved his hands down and unbuckled his belt, pulling it out of his trousers and leaving it on the mattress beside him. "No staring. Just... just... be careful and don't—"

“Stare. Yes, I heard - You’re not nude though, John. I can't see much of anything. You’re wearing underwear,” Sherlock snorted, but then frowned, paused and glanced down. “ _Aren’t you_?”

“Well… _yeah_ … but--” John groaned, rubbing at his face, his mouth, and pinching the bridge of his nose in mortification. “They're white. Quite old white ones, so they're not exactly in the prime of their life. A bit... see through.” He glared off at the bedroom window and blushed hotly. “I just grabbed them this morning. I didn't plan on anyone seeing them...”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, turning up on one side, and he quickly pressed his lips together with a nod, “Mm. I _see_ ,” he replied, looking away in clear amusement, “Well, I promise not to stare.”

“ _God_ , I hate this...” John grumbled. “You _are_ horrible. I can't believe you kneed me in the bollocks.”

“Oh yes, because that was my plan _all along_ ,” Sherlock uttered sarcastically with a scoff and an eye roll, leaning over him, hands coming to rest either side of John’s head. “ _Look_ , I wanted to help you. Not injury you. I tried to warn you about the ice and then I tried to help you up. Next time I shan’t bother.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn't. - Christ, we should put down some salt,” John replied, wincing and sighing. “Make sure its safe for Mrs Hudson or clients to come over. If I can walk tomorrow I'll go and get some… if I'm not hideously crippled for life. I could be potentially sterilised by this.” 

“...Did you hit your head on the way down too?” Sherlock asked in retort, expression hard, contradicting his stroking a hand, that slid through his hair far to tenderly for it to be a passing touch. “Because that would explain _so much_.”

John chuckled, reaching down to carefully cup his testicles when it caused them to ache, “I think Mrs Hudson was right… we're going to need to ice them. _Oh God_ … I really don't want to put ice on my balls...”

Sherlock hummed and straightened, “You need ibuprofen first,” he murmured. “And something less restricting to wear. Pyjamas will do. Stay there and don’t move, I'll fetch them.”

“Yeah, wait, Sherlock? I don't suppose you have—Do you have a hand mirror? I'd like to, er, have a look at the damage...”

Routing through his bedside drawer with a small, soft sigh, Sherlock produced a fancy mirror and gave it over, “Do let me know if there is anything overly… wrong,” he said with a empathetic wince, giving John’s crotch a glance as he left. The glass of the mirror looked old, possibly even an heirloom judging by the gilding of the frame, and John blanched as he thought about that. About the history of this mirror, of the beautiful hands of Holmes family members who had studied their faces. It seemed a bit degrading to be using it to look at his bollocks.

John took a deep breath, gathering his courage, pushing down on his pain, and shifted, lifting his hips with a shaking garble of torture to first try and pushing down his trousers to look at himself from his reclined position, before finding it far to fiddly and awkward and long to carry on. He shook his head at his stupid predicament and let his aching hips, pelvis, cock and balls relax back into place against the bed. Why couldn't things be simpler? Why did he have to slip on that damn ice? Why did Sherlock then have to kneel down on his cock? He hated the day. Hated it with a vengeance. Eager to see the back of it.

Looking around, trying to find another way to go about examining himself, John cursed and growled before awkwardly rolling onto his side, pushing up painfully to his feet, still stooped forward, and pushed his trousers and underwear until they pooled at his feet. It was odd to then sit back down on Sherlock's bed, to have his bum directly touching Sherlock's sheets, but he shoved that awkwardness away and spread his legs, careful not to hurt himself too much. It made him shake, of course, made him feel sick and dizzy and frozen with suffering, though he had to see, had to check. He couldn't have Sherlock did it. Didn't want Sherlock to do it. Disliked being on the opposite side of an examination. He was not a patient.

His testicles, when he could finally see through his tear blurred vision, were already starting to go a painful looking reddish purple and John frowned at their appearance before sliding the mirror down. Thankful that it wasn't one of the magnification ones, John lifted his scrotum and moved it around, exhaling a small whimper as he touched a particularly sore part. There didn't look to be too much damage, mostly some swelling and bruising, but he was going to have one heck of a dark coloured sac, that much was for sure. Damn Sherlock and his knobbly knees.

“John, are you done? - I couldn’t find those soft pyjamas that you have, the ones which are a washed out crimson, so I—” Sherlock came to a stuttering halt just on the fringes of the open bedroom door, mouth open and eyes wide as stared, and John only had time to sneer in embarrassment, lips parting on an angry climbing retort because Sherlock then scowled. Scowled and furiously closed the distance. “I told you not to _move_!—If I knew you were going to disobey direct orders - orders, I may add, that you’d make _damn sure_ I followed, you hypocrite - then I wouldn’t have bothered doing anything at _all_!” Huffing, Sherlock threw down the pyjama bottoms he’d brought with him and yanked the mirror from John’s grasp, trying to urge him to lie back down. “ _Don’t_ fight me.”

“ _Fuck off_! I told you that I wanted to _fucking_ look!” John reminded him, cupping his genitals to carefully hide and position them correctly, “How else was I supposed to do that? - Look, just, will you just stop _pushing_ on me and let me speak? _Sherlock_!"

" _What_?"

"There's no damage, just swelling and bruising. I'll definitely need that ice and also some anti-inflammatory painkillers--”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes, I know!” he griped. “Out of everything, I know _that_ much, which is why I mentioned...” He pulled out a packet from his dressing gown pocket and waved it in John’s face. “Ibuprofen. Anti-inflammatory!” With that done he plumped the pillow that John had reclined back onto and then moved to take the crumpled state of his trousers and pants off his ankles, where they had remained. "Also, I've been gone for a good ten minutes trying to find those bloody pyjamas. I had thought you'd... be done by now. And have found a better way to look than _moving_ and getting up!"

“Yeah, yeah, you're just as embarrassed as I am. I get it. Stop being a _dick_! - And could you maybe _give_ me the pyjama bottoms that you _did_ get, please? Or perhaps a blanket or something? It's just I don't really want to sit here like this--” He gestured down to his cock by nodding his head and lifted an eyebrow, hating how much he was blushing.

“Oh for _goodness sake_ ,” Sherlock muttered, turning and frowning as he searched for and then picked up the thrown bottoms. “No more _moving_. No more _doctoring_ , unless specifically asked. Just lie there and let me help you.” Moving to John’s now very bare limbs, he slipped his socked feet into each soft trouser leg, and slowly pulled them up, taking care when it came to lifting John’s hips and bringing the elastic waistband over John’s cupping, covering hands. “ _There_. As I said, I couldn’t find the really soft ones, so these will have to do. - Use my glass of water there beside you to take the tablets and I’ll get an ice pack.”

John, rolling his eyes at his friend's attitude, but able to understand at least a bit of it, reached for Sherlock's hand and gave it a squeeze, “Thank you,” he smiled and then reached for the glass, taking the tablets easily and then relaxing back onto the bed. 

Nodding, Sherlock lingered for a moment, gaze flitting over him, “I… really didn’t mean to hurt you. I... I only wanted...”

“ _I know_ ,” John replied, “I know it was an accident. If you were going to hurt me on purpose, I'd like to think you're enough of a gentleman _not_ to go for the goolies.”

“Well, actually, it’s the _perfect_ place to--” At John’s narrowed look, Sherlock closed his mouth and gave a tight smile. “Right. Good. As long as you won’t hold this over me? You so _love_ to do that.”

“I might use it for a day or so – Demanding tea and toast, or a foot rub,” John laughed, holding himself when it resulting in some more pain. “It'll be nice to milk it...” The last few words suddenly seemed dirty, like a double entendre, and he realised with an internal groan that he wouldn't be able to have his longed awaited for wank. A wank and an early night was exactly what he had needed. That was very, very unlikely now with his poor bruised bits.

Sherlock rocked on his feet with another few nods, then slid closer and bent down, nosing lightly at John’s cheek to leave a soft, tickling kiss there, “Blame the ice, not me,” he murmured, pointing at where John had impacted the floor outside. “In fact, I should put some cream on your skin. Try and lessen the bruising as much as we can.”

“I… you… that was— _What_?” John spluttered, thrown by the kiss as well as the unexpected suggestion, and then shook his head quickly. “Um. No, no, that's okay. I don't think you need to do. I could do it myself, anyway… there is no need for you to have to do that...”

“You fell on your _backside_ ,” Sherlock intoned, unimpressed with John’s response and frowning, his hands going to his hips. “What do you think I’m going to do? - You do the _exact same thing_ to me, John! You _insist_ on it doing things for me!”

John pushed his fingers into his eyelids and groaned, “It feels bruised but I've been more worried about my bloody balls, Sherlock.”

“There _will_ be bruises. Perhaps not now, but later,” Sherlock told him with a gesturing wave of one arm and signalling fingers. “Which is precisely why I suggested putting some cream on it.”

John whined lowly in his throat and gave Sherlock a helpless expression, trying to get him to reconsider, trying to silently plead for him to not add the sight of his naked buttocks to the list of things he shouldn't have seen that day, “Oh God... _fuck_... fine. But I might need some help turning over...” 

“Well _obviously_ ,” Sherlock snorted and gave John's arm a small pat, smiling down at him widely, having got his own way. “ _Stay_. No moving. Let me get that ice pack and find the cream. I assume it’s somewhere in your possession. In your medical bag or stuffed inside the bathroom cabinet. - Arnica cream, I think it’s called? You’ve used it on me a couple of times, if I remember correctly.”

“That's the one. Inside pocket of my medical bag,” John replied, taking another sip of water to calm his nerves, not that it did anything at all to calm any part of him, “I guess I'll just – wait here then.”

“Yes. Do. Not. Move,” Sherlock reiterated and, with a stern look, he left the room again, his footsteps sounding down the corridor and into the kitchen, where John heard him rustling in the fridge for a few moments, banging things around, rearranging the contents, and pulling out drawers. 

Dreading what Sherlock actually was doing the kitchen, John itched to get up and get the things himself, but really didn't want to deal with a stroppy Sherlock. Not that he was able to actually stand up and walk further than a few steps before he would have to cry out in pain. He was almost tempted to look through Sherlock's bedside table while he waited, see what secrets he could find from inside, but left it alone. Did Sherlock have a diary? Did he keep mints beside the bed and a Russian novel that anyone else would find dull? 

He’d just finished reciting the periodic table that hung on the wall near the door when Sherlock came back, hefting an ice pack that he’d covered in a tea towel in one hand and giving the cream tube a shake in the other, “ _Done_ ,” he announced, striding over to first cover John’s lower body with the blanket from John’s chair, which he had draped over one shoulder. “Here. Put this over you to put a few more layers between you and the ice. Don’t want to do more damage, do we?” Shooting John a grin, Sherlock then placed the covered ice pack gently over his crotch, allowing John to take over once it was situated. “I’m also going to put a pillow under you, once we’ve dealt with the bruises. I used to do it when I had this sort of injury. Cushioning the area was better than just letting everything… hang and get jostled about.”

John nodded, knowing he didn't need this amount of 'specialist' care, but letting Sherlock do it anyway, basking in the attention a little, “How did you used to get these injuries? Sports?”

“A _lot_ of things attributed to my groin trauma,” Sherlock chuckled, taking hold of John's body and tipping him slowly onto his side. “Tree climbing, bike riding, horseback riding, dancing, sparring, having no friends… you know, the usual.”

“How does having no friends cause groin injury?” John frowned in bemusement. “Unless you spent your time alone doing...” He gave a crude hand gesture with a small, fleeting smirk and an eyebrow lift.

Sherlock slapped his arm down and then pulled the back of his work shirt up, “Having no friends meant that no one stepped in for my defence. Having no friends meant that all I had were _enemies_. Were people who found it funny to kick me in the crotch whenever they could. It had nothing to do with _violent masturbation_.” 

“Ah...” John suddenly felt guilty for being so pithy. “That's awful. I'm sorry.”

“They weren’t _always_ successful. After the first few times I caught on, pretty quickly, to their little routined plan,” Sherlock replied, smoothing his fingers over his lower back and then opening the tube of cream to thinly apply. 

“Is that why you learned how to do the, er, stick fighting thing? As self defence?” John asked, rather enjoying the stroking of Sherlock's fingers against his skin, even if he occasionally flinched at tender spot. "Or all the fight training, I should say? You do have a lot. Bit of a mismatch in your technique."

“Partly. Though also it would be remiss of me not to learn _some sort_ of self defence if I’m going after criminals,” Sherlock murmured, sounding like he was concentrating. He applied more cream and then blew softly at the skin. “Good thing you don’t bruise easily…”

“No, I'm lucky like that.” John hummed in agreement. “You, however, you bruise like a peach… I don't know how you're not _constantly_ black and blue.”

“Nope. _Wrong_ ,” he told him with a drumming tap. “I don't bruise like a peach. I just have _very_ pasty skin. So it’s a lot more noticeable when I do bruise. - Right, I’m going to tug down your waistband to below your buttocks, so I can have a look and apply more of this on your rump. All right?”

John huffed through his nose, amused, and adjusted the position of the ice against his crotch before nodding, “Okay… yes… Tell me how bad it is.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Sherlock assured him with a very friendly, very light, thump on the bum, “Where else did you hurt yourself when you fell?”

“Mostly arse and left thigh, but they're really not too bad,” John replied, “It's mostly just my genitals that hurts. The pain of that is blocking out any other...”

Exposing John’s backside to is gaze, Sherlock hummed and leaned in, “ _Undoubtedly_ , but I would still like to know where else you hit pavement,” he responded, his breath and fingers warm and caressing, bringing a horribly confusing blend of pained pleasure to John’s body, to his pelvis and cock. "Don't want you moaning about it later."

“Euh-erm… elbow, I suppose, and my shoulder was a bit jarred by you? I don't know. It feels okay… no worse than usual,” John mumbled, biting his lip as he felt Sherlock's fingers glide cream over his naked arse. “How does it look?”

“Red,” Sherlock replied and pushed a palm to the sore skin to somehow put the point across. “Not as bad as it could be. Just looks as if you’ve been spanked.” He huffed out a low chuckle and then began to add a more copious amount of cream, slicking between each buttock with his fingertips very slightly, bringing waves and waves of confusing sensations. “I’ll do your thigh after, then your elbow and shoulder…”

“Um, nah, it's okay. I'll, er, I'll just stay like this… for a bit,” John got out as casually as he was able, impressed when his cock thickened, considering how sore it was. “Let it soak in...”

“Mm, _nope_. I’m doing your thigh, elbow and shoulder - I’m looking after you, therefore I make the rules.”

“ _Fuck_ , fine. I feel like I should... I should tell you that, I mean, explain that, although my genitals are _incredibly_ tender… there might be... I mean _there_ is, uh, a problem. - Basically, I've got a bit of a semi going on. And… yeah.”

Ceasing movement, Sherlock then leaned over him, resting his chin on John’s shoulder to give him an unimpressed scowl, “What has the fact that you have an _erection_ got to do with _anything_?” he questioned haughtily. “It is only natural to enjoy some kinds of stimulation.” His mouth quirked, giving his expression a complacent quality, and he peeked down John’s body to where he was still holding the ice pack. “Mm. _Impressive_. Does it hurt?”

John laughed, hissed, and then gave a small shrug, “It's a weird pain pleasure thing. Like getting bit during sex. You know, it hurts a tad, but that just tends to heighten the pleasure… Not that I'm _y'know_ … getting off on it or anything.”

“You like being bitten?” Sherlock drawled, his lips lifting higher into a full out smirk.

“ _Jesus_ , why did I mention that?—Yes, I like being bitten. Not deep and hard – I don't want to lose chunks - but enough to make it sting.”

Eyeing him up, Sherlock pursed his lips and then leaned away, continuing with the smoothing on of the cream, slicked fingers smearing another dollop down to coat John’s left thigh without warning, forcing a gasping exclamation, “I have _never_ seen you with bite marks,” he murmured as John tensed with shock and then pain. “Not anywhere _visible_ …”

John shook his head, “Nuh-no. Yeah, you wouldn't. It's usually under the collar... on the chest, stomach, inner thighs… you know – _hidden_ places.” He cleared his throat nervously, loudly. “Not that it's happened for a while...”

“Do you _bite_ them back?” Sherlock asked, wrist bumping, just faintly, against John’s hot perineum, forcing a yelp up his throat that he was quick to smother. It happened again. Then again. Making John see stars and tense and hurt and shiver. Then  Sherlock pulled his hands away, seemingly unaware of what he'd done to John as he realign his waistband and moved a pillow where John's hips would settle. “Now is your elbow and shoulder, so, ease onto your back again, please…”

Hesitating slightly, John looked at Sherlock and then sighed, rolling carefully onto his back, being careful to cup himself, glad that his partial erection was hidden from view, “What about you? Tell me something you like.”

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock replied with a large, though fleeting, conceited grin. “Which elbow?”

John shrugged held it out to him, “No? I thought we were opening up to one another… talking about this _stuff_.”

“ _You_ mentioned it,” Sherlock countered with an arched eyebrow, taking hold of his forearm, undoing the button at his cuff, and rolling up the sleeve. “Perhaps you should think before you speak?”

“Where's the fun in that?” John replied under his breath, smiling widely. “You probably already know everything I like. It's not fair. Know all my kinks. Deduced _everything_ there is to know about me...”

Looking skyward in aggravation, Sherlock began rubbing at a sore spot on his elbow, “John. What have I told you about my methods of deduction? Hm? What is it that I look for in a room, on a person? - That’s right. _Facts_. I cannot just conjure things that aren’t there. I don't like to merely presume everything. I must use cold, hard facts to help me arrive at a certain conclusion. The only thing, the only factoid, which I have access to in a way of figuring out your ‘ _kinks_ ,’ is your porn history. And that’s very, uh, what do they call it nowadays? Ah, yes, _vanilla_!” He gave him another grin, this one mocking as he loomed over. “Heterosexual pornography, mainly. A dash of lesbian, when the occasion arises. But mostly you stick to the humdrum categories. The ordinary. Only recently have I found that this might not reflect your preferences...”

“You think I'm _vanilla_? I'm _not_ vanilla! That's – that means boring!”

“ _Ordinary_ ,” Sherlock repeated to correct him, sliding his index finger around in a swirl against John’s skin. 

John scoffed, pushing up on his other elbow, gritting through the spike of pain, “I've _never_ been accused of being ordinary! Not during sex. Not even talking about sex,” he told him unhappily.

Sherlock scoffed back at him, “I fail to see why you are so offended,” he said pushing on his chest to press him back down with a small glower. “And _do not move_.”

“Oh for _fuck's sake_! I'm not an invalid! I don't have a bloody spinal injury, I've just got bruised bollocks!”

Sherlock continued pushing until he relented, “Do _not_ test my patience,” he uttered, sounding a lot like John himself when he spoke to a disobeying Sherlock. “You will stay where you are until I say otherwise.”

John, seeing it for what he thought it was, seeing how much Sherlock wanted to tend to him, how much he felt bad and worried, reached to cup the side of his neck, thumb just under Sherlock's ear, “You _don't_ need to worry about me, I'm _fine_.”

“I _kneeled_ on your genitals,” Sherlock told him, though blinked and leaned into the touch, his pulse strong and fluttering. “You were almost sick and couldn’t walk because of the pain I caused you. You’re _not_ fine. But you _will_ be. The ice will help. As will the cream. And you will stay here until you can stand without buckling forward.”

“It was an accident, I know you didn't mean it,” John carried on, trying to soothe and giving in to the urge to pull Sherlock down so he could press a gentle kiss to his cheek, “But I'll stay here and let you take care of me, alright? - Are you going to stay with me the entire time?”

Peering into John’s eyes, Sherlock looked him over and then fiddled with the tube of cream, “How am I to care for you if I don’t remain close to you? - Now, let me see your shoulder. I _need_ to do your shoulder.” 

“My shoulder is fine. - Come on, lay down with me for a bit and we'll order Chinese. We can pig out in bed.”

“No, no, you mentioned the shoulder. I'm going to smear your shoulder in this stuff and you’re going to let me,” Sherlock told him, lifting his eyebrows and starting on unbuttoning John’s shirt. “Which shoulder? Injured? I did stupidly lean on it...”

“ _Sherlock_...” John sighed, then laughed softly. “Injured, yeah, just on the left of it. It's okay, really, but... I'll let you put the bloody cream on.”

“It’s _not_ okay,” Sherlock argued, fingertips grazing down John’s torso. “Just… let me do this, all right?”

Nodding softly, John helped push the shirt open to bare his entire torso. His scar was ugly, raised and gnarled, yet it didn't bother him, John wasn't embarrassed by it, especially not in front of Sherlock, who seemed to want to look and touch it as much as humanly possible. It felt nice. His previous girlfriends and one night stands had seemed too scared to touch it, worried John might be offended or turned off. Sherlock touching it though, it seemed special somehow, more reverent.

“It’s tense,” Sherlock commented idly, shifting the shoulder joint and then rubbing and pressing and kneading at the locked, knotted, and aching muscles. John hissed through his teeth but didn’t stop him, only watched and waited and admired how skillful and elegant Sherlock’s fingers were as they passed over his skin, smooth and scared alike. “I doubt this is from the fall though. You _clearly_ didn’t have a great time today.”

“No,” John admitted, “Its been a bit rubbish. Crap sleep, _terrible_ patients and then falling on my arse. It's not been a stellar day.”

“You… didn’t sleep well?” Sherlock questioned with a sudden and affronted frown. “Right, well… at least you get to put your feet up now.” He moved away, looking a bit sullen, a bit insulted, and John opened his mouth with a sigh to placate him, but Sherlock sniffed loudly and pulled the blanket up to cover him further. “How are your testicles doing?”

“They're – fine, yeah.” John nodded with a long sigh, wondering how this ended up being his life, icing his bollocks in his best friends bed.

“Can you have a look at them? Just to see about the… swelling,” Sherlock told him with murmur, gesturing and then wandering into the bathroom to wash his hands. “Try and do it without moving, if you don’t mind.”

John groaned, putting his face in his hands and taking a moment, then lifted the blanket and reached in to touch his swollen bollocks, wrapping a hand around his cock and attempting to move it to one side. Yelping loudly at the pain which rushed through him, John grit his teeth and closed his eyes. Moving his penis would not be possible without pulling the skin, which set his testicles off with horrid pain. 

“ _What_? What happened?” Sherlock exclaimed, turning off the tap and moving to the door but not passing through it. “Not good? - How is the swelling? How does it look?”

“I moved my dick and it hurt,” John sniggered, “And it looks… _very_ sore. And much darker than it was… guess the bruising has started to come out now.” He looked up and saw Sherlock hovering near the doorway. “You can come in...” 

Hesitating only a moment, Sherlock returned, drying his hands on a towel, “We both knew it would bruise, but is the bruising, in anyway, _concerning_?” he asked. “I didn’t knee you with a tremendous amount of force, however… when it comes to the penis and testicles, better safe than sorry.”

John sighed, clenching his eyes together, “Okay, I'll... show you. - _Please_ don't just stare at my knob… promise you wont?”

“ _Oh good grief_ —John, I essentially saw it moments before and I _have_ to stare if you want me to inspect it,” Sherlock told him in irritation, stepping closer. “But I don’t have to look. I’m not a doctor.”

“No, but it'll put your mind at rest, won't it?” John asked before moving the ice pack, flipping back the blanket and taking his hands away, holding them awkwardly by his sides. “It's bruised and swollen, but there doesn't seem to be any lasting damage. No twisting or anything. Just needs to be rested and supported.”

Sherlock looked, without blinking, for several long, dragging, humiliating moments and leaned nearer, grimacing and paling at the sight, “All right…” he mumbled, taking up the ice pack to gently press down on the base of John’s bruised penis as he angled his head to peer at it. “The urethra is fine?”

“Seems that way,” John nodded, itching to cover his genitals again. It was awkward and distressing having Sherlock that close, but also in a perverse way it was kind of thrilling. “I didn't see any trauma when I looked in the mirror, but I'll probably know for certain when I go for a wee. I can't see any damage to anything except the skin.”

“And your scrotum is all right?” Sherlock asked, using the blanket to touch and lift John’s penis aside without skin contact. “Not as swollen as I had feared…”

John closed his eyes, even with the blanket the view of Sherlock touching him was confusingly erotic, “Mmhmm fine. _Totally fine_. It should be back to normal in a few days.”

Humming, Sherlock used the blanket to then cup and heft John’s bollocks in his hand, gently feeling and massaging, “Normally pain should subside, at least a little bit, after thirty minutes or so…” 

“Y-yeah it's getting less and less painful as time goes by...” John choked, hands clenched into the bedding. “ _Oh god_ … could you not do that. It's a bit – _tender_.” 

“I know, I’m… just checking,” Sherlock told him in a low mutter, releasing him and helping to cover him back up, making sure not to skim the material of the pyjama bottoms against the skin. He then tucked the blanket around him and replaced the ice pack to his crotch. “Keep that there for a bit longer. I’ll… make some tea.”

What on earth was going on between them? It seemed like they were going somewhere, that they were almost a couple, but then again people had thought that for months. John definitely felt drawn to Sherlock like he had never before and he found himself pondering the previous days until Sherlock came back into the room with a cuppa and a plate of biscuits. Taking his gratefully, John sipped at his tea and watched as Sherlock walked around the bed and climbed into the other side, sitting straight backed against the headboard as he drank his own.

It was weird. It was confusing, but hell – John thought, it felt like home.

**Author's Note:**

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